


Operation Whisky (Nov. 2003), a FrUK fic

by crashedtimemachine (snowonpalecheeks)



Series: Historical Hetalia (FrUK) [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 21st Century, Entente Frugale, FrUK, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Iraq War, M/M, Operation Iraqi Freedom, War on Terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowonpalecheeks/pseuds/crashedtimemachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the invasion of Iraq by a joint international force led by America and England, England finds that he truly is the black sheep of Europe when even France hasn't spoken to him in months. It's only by chance (and with the help of a bit of alcohol) that he manages to take the first steps toward reconciliation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Whisky (Nov. 2003), a FrUK fic

**Author's Note:**

> Historical FrUK fic about the aftermath of England's decision to support America in the invasion of Iraq in 2003 and the groundwork laid for the future entente frugale; nations use human names when speaking with/in front of humans; there are historical end notes.
> 
> Hover mouse over French words (and drunk words) for translations. Thanks so much for reading!

**November 8, 2003, Stockholm, Sweden  
(8 months after America and the United Kingdom invaded Iraq)**

_Too chilly for early November,_ England thought to himself as he took one last drag off his cigarette. He tossed the butt over the ledge of the balcony and tilted his head up to the stars. The cloud he exhaled into the darkness was probably more condensed breath than actual smoke, and he watched it curl and dance up into the heavens.

A late evening mist had left everything below blanketed in a thin, crystalline layer of ice glistening in the faint glow of the streetlamps. It might have been lovely, if he could have been bothered to appreciate it. 

In his current mood, however, there was no hope of that. What with the war— _another_ war, and weren't they meant to be preventing them?—and America's boss (the one with the beady blue eyes and the stutter), who would be arriving in London in a few weeks for a strategy meeting. There were already grumbles of dissent and protest amongst the public. England just felt... _restless_. Tense. And being forced to attend this diplomatic charade wasn't helping. Most of the nations in the ballroom had eyed him suspiciously all evening (and key nations were nowhere to be found, having boycotted the meeting in protest of the invasion). 

He wanted to remain on the balcony, smoking, sipping his wine, and feeling sorry for himself, but then America burst through the doors and insisted— _“C'mon, dude!”_ —that he go inside for some kind of toast to victory. 

_Victory? In Iraq?_ That would have entailed never needing to invade it in the first place. But they hadn't had a choice, he reminded himself sternly. He took his wine glass from the railing and followed America inside, wondering at how the boy could be so energetic no matter the circumstances.

There were words said, glasses raised...England didn't pay much attention. He didn't see how war was something to be celebrated until it was over and done. In fact, he believed ( _hoped_ ) that the world was maturing past the need for it. However, did he want revenge on...someone...for what they'd done to America? Deep down, yes, he did. Despite everything, he would always think of America as his precious little brother (and if he was more honest with himself, _his son_ ). But he was starting to wonder if this was really the way to go about it and—

“Hey! _Arthur!_ Say something!” America slapped him on the back a little too forcefully, snapping England out of his internal reverie. Ah, all eyes were on him. 

“Oh, um…” he started, but stopped when his eye caught on something in the crowd. _Damn. **Damn.**_ He'd nearly managed to avoid this, but standing just to the side was France. 

And he was staring right at him. 

Beautiful, stupid, _stubborn_ France, with whom he hadn't spoken since before the war began. In fact, he could name the exact moment France had walked out of his life and left a hole he hadn't even been aware the idiot was filling. It had been when the French ambassador had finished addressing the United Nations. There had been a moment in which France had stood there on the dais, defiant, gorgeous in his fury, and then they were both gone. No more debating. No more arguing. No more throwing things at one another: _shouting_ about all the reasons England _thought_ they should go to war, and all the reasons France _knew_ they shouldn't.

The last time they were alone together, he had called France a traitor— _a coward_ —but that had been no coward standing on the floor of the UN.

And now, after months without a single word exchanged, he just—

“ **Ahem!** ” America unconvincingly cleared his throat. “Dude, you got anything to add or what?” 

England forced himself to avoid glancing back in France's direction. ( _For God's sake, man, have a little dignity._ ) To the gathered party-goers, he raised his mostly empty wine glass and simply said, “To victory.” 

“Lame!” America stage-whispered beside him. But then he leaned a little closer. “You okay?”

England was honestly surprised by the sincerity of the question and the concern furrowing America's brows. “Oh. I'm fine, lad.” He put on a weak smile, for America's sake. “Go on and have some fun. I'm going to refill my glass.” 

“Awesome! Catch ya later!” America bounded off into the crowd, grinning ear to ear. 

Alone again ( _at last_ ), England shuffled over to the bar and set his glass down. When the bartender took it, he waved her off as nonchalantly as possible and asked for whiskey, instead, _neat_ with a splash of water. She eyed him dubiously for only a moment before studiously pouring his drink and sliding it across the bar. She grinned at the hefty tip he left in her jar. (Lucky for her, his economy was really booming these days.)

Just as he turned away from the bar, he heard a very loud, very familiar laugh carry above the din of the party:

“Ohonhonhon, _mon cheri_ , you are a clever girl! _Magnifique!_ ” 

France had one floozy on each arm— _Blondes,_ England noted with more than a hint of disgust—and he was fawning over them both in turn. No doubt, he was already planning his after-party entertainment. 

England rolled his eyes and turned away, prepared to walk in the opposite direction. What did _he_ care what France did afterward? It wasn't any of his business. In fact, he was glad he'd already been distracted by his current companions, because otherwise, France would be annoying _him_ instead.

He took a single step in his retreat back to the quiet balcony before a hand fell heavily on his shoulder. _Shit._

“Arthur…” France said with his ridiculous accent and the slightest upturn at the end that always made him sound either unsure or teasing. 

“Francis,” England returned, and it was stiff and proper and it made his stomach turn when he heard how hollow his voice had become. 

How _cold_. 

“Well,” France continued, seemingly undeterred, “I didn't want to be accused of being rude, _monsieur le gentleman_ , so consider this fulfillment of my social obligation, non? I'll go now.” 

Apparently, France could be just as cold. It felt as if a glacier had been building up between them since the invasion ( _for centuries_ , if truth be told), and the ice had seeped down into their veins until they were unable to truly enter one another's space. Until they were practically strangers. 

And England just stood there dumbly. His mind had suddenly ground to a halt and there was no getting it started again as long as France—his heat, his scent, his lips moving around his words and the memory of them moving around other more intimate syllables—as long as he was there, England would remain frozen, it seemed, by the ice clogging his bloodstream.

Luckily or not, France had been on his way out when he stopped by. One of his, _ahem_ , companions draped a slender arm over his shoulder and whispered something close to his ear that made even the old pervert blush. For a maddening moment, England's heart insisted that he simply _must_ know what she had said, but then it fell silent when France, who had already turned away, paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“My condolences, _mon ami_ , for your soldiers who have died in the desert.” 

It was a low blow, and just like that, even after so long, France pressed and twisted the verbal dagger _just so_ before retreating into the thinning crowd and, presumably, into the ice-slick street.

It seemed most of the party-goers were pairing off and exiting the ballroom; the majority would be staying nearby in the elegant hotel a few blocks away (England was situated on the 22nd floor, along with America, Canada, other former colonies, and members of the Commonwealth). 

Instead of following the others out, he drained his glass in one long drink and shoved it toward the bartender again. When she raised a brow, he mustered his best smile and promised, “Just one for the road, m'dear? Well...for the walk, I suppose.” 

She laughed a little and handed it to him before setting to the task of cleaning the bar area and shutting down shop. It seemed he would be leaving, after all. 

When England finally stumbled out of the ballroom and into the relatively empty street, it was nearly two a.m. and beyond chilly. The alcohol helped, but his teeth were still chattering. He'd lost track of time, he supposed, but it didn't matter. _None of it mattered._

( _If that were true, why had France's words wounded him so?_ )

He laughed, loud and thready and a bit crazed into the damp night air. 

Honestly, none of it mattered. Soldiers _died_ , in one war or another, year after year, and it _never_ ended. He had squabbled with France for over one hundred years, and he hadn't batted an eye when his men had repeatedly fallen on French swords. For eternal beings, what were a few measly human lives. Like insects, they were born, lived, and died in the span of a breath, and then they were gone, replaced by other fragile humans. ( _He remembers trying to explain this to America once, long ago, and he's not sure the boy ever forgave him for telling him the truth too late to spare him the pain of loss..._ )

It didn't matter. 

( _If that were so, why had it hurt so very much? Why did he feel every one of their lives slipping through his fingers, fading away, screaming in agony, alone and afraid? Why did he care so damn much, even when he insisted he didn't? It mattered, it did, and he hated it nearly as much as he hated France for mentioning it._ )

 _France._

“So? ‘Oo needs ‘im ennyway?!” he yelled at no one in particular. The few people on the street turned to look, but he was too pissed out of his mind to care. “I dun need ‘im! I dun need ennybody!” England tripped over his own feet and landed badly on one knee on the pavement. “Stupid...stupid _**frawg**_!” he continued, a heap of limbs and misery collapsed against the side of one of the nondescript brick buildings in the posh neighborhood, mumbling and cursing to himself. 

Stupid France and his stupid threats of veto and boycott and all that nonsense. There were things that France didn't understand: about the war, about the pain of seeing America (dear and frustrating and completely ungrateful little America) bleeding and crying and so very scared. It had _done_ something to England, uncovered a hidden protectiveness he'd forgotten he possessed, and forced him to do something— _anything_ —to exact revenge upon the perpetrators. Perhaps it had been a hasty reaction, but sitting on his hands would have sent the wrong message. Right? _Right._

It would have seemed weak. It would have seemed like _he_ was scared, as well. Imagine that; England, scared. The former Great British Empire shaking in his boots over a handful of religious zealots? Really… 

He stared up into the street lamp's glow, silently reliving memories of his glory days and wishing he wasn't lying on his pack of cigarettes, until he could barely feel his fingers…

And that was how France found him. 

“Oh, _Angleterre_ , what happened?” France stood above him. He was leaning over a little so that his blond hair fringed and haloed his face angelically. And while he was certainly smiling in that signature, teasing way, it didn't reach anywhere near his eyes, which were decidedly serious and questioning silently. ( _Are you okay, mon ami?_)

“Whaddayou want?” England muttered, feeling very much at a disadvantage by their positions and immediately defensive. He was lying on the ground, vulnerable and injured, in front of Britain's mortal enemy...nemesis...the worst...the reason he was even in this position to start with...and he...he…

France's hand hovered just in front of England's eyes, blotting out the brightness of the street lamp. 

England just stared at it.

“Do you not wish to get up?” France looked a bit more concerned, all hint of his former smile having faded. “Your leg seems to be bleeding.”

England, however, wasn't quite ready to concede defeat. “I c'n gerrup ma'self…” he mumbled as he tried to do just that and landed on his ass on the pavement. 

France didn't laugh; instead, he extended his hand again. “We both know you need help. Why are you so stubborn, _Angleterre_?” 

“Wha'bout you? You been givin' me the silen'treatment fer eight munths!” Still, England took France's hand and let him haul him up off the ground.

“ _Moi?_ I think you are mistaken; it is _you_ who has been avoiding me.”

England's arm wrapped naturally over France's shoulders in an all-too-familiar posture, and then France was carrying him toward the hotel...and...it was just too _normal_ , too _ordinary_ , for England to deal with in his current drunken, upsot state. 

So he laughed.

He threw back his head and he laughed hard and deep, soaked in alcohol and completely barking mad. 

They were fools, the both of them—stubborn, childish old fools. 

He leaned a little heavier into France's side, his own shoulders shaking with laughter as his rival-cum-savior led them both down the street and into the fancy hotel lobby.

“‘Allo, _mademoiselle_. I seem to have lost my room key.” 

The woman at the front desk must have given him a replacement of some kind because, before England knew it, they were moving, stepping into the lift, and then...maybe...just as the doors slid closed, the warm press of dry, soft lips upon his own. There and gone again, so subtle he could have imagined it. It was all a bit hazy, to be honest, and only became more so once the lift reached the correct floor. 

England tried to exit under his own power and nearly toppled face-first into the plush red carpet of the corridor.

France, who was quite experienced in managing England's drunken antics, fluidly hooked his arm around his waist and guided him down the hallway toward his room.

That was when England remembered. “Where're yer friends, frawg? Tha slags ya left wit'? If ya think I'm gonna share a—”

“They are gone, _Angleterre_ ,” France said as a he opened the door of the suite.

His calmness made England want to punch him square in the jaw, mess up his beautiful face, make him ugly, hideous, and… But “Gone?” was all he managed to mumble in response.

France deposited him on the bed and knelt down to get to work on untying his shoes. “Gone. _Laisse tomber._ ” 

“Whut? ‘Er ya losin' yer touch? Ha!” England fell back haphazardly onto the bed allowing France to continue undressing him. He was divested of shoes, socks, belt, and dress pants before France finally got around to answering. 

“I left my key somewhere in the ballroom. Alas, it just wasn't meant to be. So I bid them _bonne nuit_ and came to retrieve my key.  C'est la vie.” He pulled England up to sitting again so that he could slip his coat from around his shoulders. He loosened his tie and tugged it up over his head. “Besides, you are lucky I did.” 

Finally, when England's suit had been reduced to his red boxers and rumpled white dress shirt, France knelt between his knees and began to unbutton the shirt one button at a time. The expression on his face was unusually solemn, almost _reverent_. It was puzzling, to say the least...and rare. 

And then there was a hand on France's cheek. _Oh._ It was his own. England wondered at that, how it had moved by itself to reach so easily into France's space. it was cupping his pale cheek and the thumb ( _his thumb_ ) was gently rubbing a circle against his high cheek bone. It seemed the most natural action, and yet, England couldn't remember anything quite so _tender_ ever passing between them. 

It was something different, something _new_ , he dared to venture in a sudden lucid, sobering moment. 

France paused halfway down the buttons and placed his hand over England's. For a moment, neither moved, except for France pressing his cheek into England's palm a bit more purposefully...except for their eyes meeting and, as if by silent counsel, they both smiled just a bit. 

It was something. 

After eight months of radio silence, it was the equivalent of a god damned miracle. 

As France resumed his unbuttoning, England's vision began to dim and blur. _Bloody alcohol._ Why had he drunk so much, anyway? Oh...right...the git kneeling before him.

“Bastard…” he managed just before his vision failed completely and he fell unconscious onto France's bed.

~*~

The next morning, he awoke to the sensation of someone stabbing him in the back of the head (and due to his unique perspective as a nation, he could attest to the accuracy of that description).

“Bloody **hell**!” he yelled upon opening his eyes to the very bright, very painful sunlight streaming in through a window with very _open_ curtains. He winced, however, at his own voice, which seemed to echo and bounce around in his skull. God, why did he have to overreact so _loudly._

England pulled the blankets up over his head to block out the miserably cheerful sunlight. 

The sound of a nearby shower being turned off signaled that he wasn't alone, so instead of retreating back into the blackness of sleep, he did a quick mental check of the events of the previous night (at least, as much as he could remember):

He was obviously hungover. And not just any hangover—he must have mixed the wine with something harder...whiskey. 

He was in an unfamiliar hotel room (his bags weren't near the corner by the window where he knew he'd left them).

In fact, not only unfamiliar, but _not his_. 

His body wasn't sore in any, well, tell-tale places, and he was still wearing his boxers, but his clothes were—

The first strains of someone singing a very sonorous, very French song reached his ears and his stomach sank with dread. _Oh, bollocks…_ He was hungover, exhausted, and mostly naked in France's bed. It didn't really leave much to the imagination, so he gave up trying to sort out the details and rolled out of bed. He scrambled for his clothes, intent on avoiding the man himself, and started trying to put them back on so that he could do what America liked to refer to as _the walk of shame_ —by God, that was highly accurate—in some sort of dignified fashion. Unfortunately, actually getting them on proved to be an impossible task, what with the room spinning and the entire content of his stomach trying to resurface in the flurry of motion. He had only managed one leg into his trousers by the time France stepped out of the bathroom, accompanied by the scent of various shampoos, his hair perfectly coiffed, and his clothes flawlessly pressed.

“Preparing a daring escape, Monsieur James Bond?” France was leaning against the door frame of the bathroom. He was apparently attempting to look offended, but the corners of his lips were tight, as if a grin much wider than the cheerful curve of his mouth was just waiting for the right moment to surface from its hiding place. 

“Oh, get off it, you git.” England finally managed pull on his other trouser leg and somewhat sloppily fasten them. Mostly. Clutching the rest of his clothes to his chest—he was sure he could finish dressing in the lift, or perhaps he should take the stairs and pause in the stairwell—England tried to walk past France as nonchalantly as possible. His pride required at least that much. “I'm leaving.” 

However, France's arm came down like a guillotine falling in judgement just in front of England's chest as he passed. “Oh, I can see that.” He clearly had no intention of letting him reach the door. 

“Let me through, frog.” England leveled a glare at France, not at all prepared to deal with his antics that morning. 

Oddly enough, France was unusually cognizant of this and lowered his arm to his side. “Very well,” he whispered, leaning close to England's ear, “but you should know this thing you suspect, you see, it did not happen. A true practitioner of _l'amour_ would never take advantage in such a situation.” 

For a long-held breath, England examined those eyes with which he was far too familiar, and what he discovered there was something not completely unheard of, though rare (last seen in the trenches on the Somme during the Great War, when they had both been covered in sweat and dirt and blood...a very great deal of blood). Then, England exhaled. His shoulders slumped subtly, and he smiled. Well, he no longer frowned, anyway; smiling might have caused his headache to worsen, and he wasn't willing to chance that on some idiot like France.

He muttered something as he passed France and reached for the door handle. 

“What was that, _Angleterre_?” The hint of laughter was back in his voice. 

“Thanks.” England turned the handle and let himself out. At the last possible second, before the door closed behind him, he added, “Ya bloody wanker.”

France's laughter carried through the door, melodious and sweet, if a little silly, and followed him down the corridor. England snorted softly to himself as he stepped onto the lift. He rode it down several floors to his own in a daze. The details of the previous night were finally beginning to solidify and it hadn't been near as horrifying as he had originally imagined. He vaguely remembered lying on the ground and looking up into France's pitying face. 

_**Pity!?** How dare he?!_

But just as quickly as his anger rose, it faded. It just wasn't worth it. 

He wasn't even sure why he'd been so drunk and stumbling around anyway. It was probably France's fault, though, so he definitely didn't owe the idiot anything for picking him up off the ground. And yet, some remnant of whatever it had been that had driven him back to the bar that night was still lurking deep in the back of his mind—pacing, waiting. It was immature and greedy; it was blatantly childish. 

When he finally put a name to it a few days later, he discovered that it was jealousy, perhaps tinged with a bit of regret. 

England had been taking tea in his sitting room the moment this revelation bubbled to the surface and he'd nearly spit his tea across the antique mahogany side table that had been a gift from Liz the First. 

_Hmph._

There were several ways that he could have handled the realization (enticing, _imaginative_ ways he could have taken it out on France), but in the end he simply picked up the phone. He was frankly quite weary of it all. 

He pressed the number one on the speed dial ( _What? It's convenient,_ he would insist) and moments later France answered, a knowing lilt tinging his voice. “ _Bonjour, Angleterre._ I thought you'd never call.”

* * *

**November 25, 2003, London, England**

It didn't feel like much, that first phone call, but sometimes it's the little things that matter, he supposed. 

England stood outside the press room, smoking a cigarette and trying to decompress from the heavy atmosphere of the conference he'd been shut up in all day. With America and his boss visiting all last week, England had barely had time to prepare for the summit, and now he was regretting it. Staying up late while America chattered on and on about the new animation and video games he'd gotten at Japan's house had cost him sleep and drained him of any desire to see much of anyone for the next year. 

He was only half-jokingly considering a return to _splendid isolation_ if this kept up. 

Who knew that “bridge building” between France and England would involve locking the two nations into a room all day and letting them air all of their grievances over Iraq, the EU, and eventually, even deeper wounds…? 

In that stuffy little room, they had laid bare the betrayals, lies, and pain each had inflicted on the other over the millennia of their existence as neighbors across the channel. (It was only thirty-four kilometers wide at its narrowest point, and yet at times that channel had felt more like an immeasurable, gaping chasm spread between them, separating them physically and spiritually—a rift impossible to repair.)

Looking back on it, he supposed it felt a bit like some sort of therapy. 

Or _marriage counseling._

He rolled his eyes, but it wasn't as far off the mark as he would have liked. 

France joined him on the balcony a few moments later. He leaned against the railing, plucked the cigarette from England's lips without a word, and deeply inhaled. France's eyes were closed in enjoyment, and finding it rather hard to summon the mental fortitude to protest, England chose to admire the curve of his jaw, instead, and the way his lashes contrasted subtly against his pale cheek. ( _He vaguely remembered caressing it in the not too distant past, but he was sure that had been just a dream…_ )

France opened his eyes and exhaled, smiling like the cat who got the cream; he'd caught England staring. “Drinks, _mon ami_?” He offered the cigarette back to him. “I know the perfect place.” 

England took back his cigarette and finished it off before answering. He was emotionally drained, wrung out like yesterday's laundry, tired and a bit wounded, both his heart and his pride. But he also felt remarkably lighter, as if a weight he hadn't ever known he was carrying had been lifted from his thin shoulders. The freedom that remained in its place was a bit disorienting. He glanced at France who was looking just as exhausted—at least England knew he wasn't the only one. 

Stubbing the cigarette out under his boot, he simply nodded. “Let me get my coat.” 

..

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note/historical reference:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> When the UK decided to join the US in their March 2003 invasion of Iraq, it created a rift between England and several countries in the European Union.
> 
> It wasn't until November 2003 that things began to heal, when the Prime Minister of England, Tony Blair, and the President of France, Jacques Chirac, met for an Anglo-French bridge building summit ([coverage](http://www.theguardian.com/world/2003/nov/26/france.foreignpolicy)). Of the summit, the Independent said, _ **“The message [the summit] sent was unambiguous: [England] is intent on restoring relations with Europe to the state they were in before he sided with the US over the use of force in Iraq. Because the most damaging and bitter split was with France, it is with France that the serious rebuilding of bridges must begin...”**_ The summit occurred on the first working day after President Bush (of America) had finished an official state visit to the United Kingdom amid protests. It was a turbulent time. The summit is important both in helping to mend the rift between France and England (and the rest of Europe) and as the beginning of what we now know as the [entente frugale](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entente_frugale).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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